“I estimate about thirty-five villagers and ten hostiles,” Abdal said, peering through the binoculars.
“The tall one to the left is Anderson Coldhouse,” Aimee said.
“I count the same number. I don’t see his brother,” Selima commented.
The men had gathered the villagers in the center of the village. Women rocked crying babies and soothed the children while the men sat in silence, glaring at their captors. Aimee scanned the area for any sign of Qadir.
Selima pointed. “There. The house on the far left. There are two men standing guard in front of it,” she murmured.
“We can’t do anything while they have the villagers under guard. We don’t want another massacre like that village to the east,” Abdal replied.
A man standing next to Anderson began speaking to the group in Arabic. Aimee heard enough to get the gist of it—'go about your daily lives, but don’t try anything or else’.
The group was slowly dispersing until two of Anderson’s goons grabbed a man by the arms and held him back. The crowd stopped to protest, but the interpreter gave them a sharp order.
“He is the village Elder. They will hold him as a prisoner to keep the others under control,” Selima said.
The Elder was forced into the guarded house. Aimee bit her lip and stared at the structure. She wished she had superpowers.
“I will go into the village and see if I can find out what is going on,” Selima said.
Abdal frowned. “It is too dangerous,” he hissed.
Selima lifted an eyebrow. “Do you want to go?” she asked.
Abdal grimaced and released her arm. “No… but, I will,” he said.
Selima shook her head. “Stop thinking of me as your sister for a moment, Abdal. Those men will not see me as a threat. Most men, especially from the Western half of the world, have a preconceived notion that women are weak. I’ll use that to my advantage. It is better if you two stay hidden until I return.”
“I think it would be better if I went,” Aimee said.
Selima looked at her and frowned. “It would be too dangerous,” she said.
“Not if they think I’m just a boy with a ball,” Aimee argued.
“I think you are both crazy,” Abdal said.
“You wait here,” Selima quietly ordered. “I’ll scout the area. If something happens to me, you and Abdal will be the Sheikh’s only hope,” she said with a look that dared her to disagree.
Aimee sighed and reluctantly nodded. Selima was right. There was no sense in risking everyone.
Selima slipped away from them. Aimee followed her to the outer edge of a sandstone house. Selima spoke with a woman sitting in the shade, then slipped into the woman’s house and exited with a bucket.
Selima walked to the well in the center of the village, placed the pail beside the well, and lowered the bucket that was attached to the rope. She was in the process of pouring the water into the pail when the interpreter from earlier yelled at her. Aimee’s breath caught in her throat. Selima carried her bucket of water over to the man.
There was an exchange of words, Selima looked like she was about to argue, but she picked up the bucket with a resigned, angry expression and disappeared inside the guarded house.
Less than five minutes later, Selima exited the house with an empty bucket and returned to the well. She refilled the pail with water and made it to the house where the woman lived unaccosted. Shortly after, Aimee saw Selima exit the building and retrace her path back to them.
The trio slipped into the shadow of a group of rocks where they could still see the village, yet remain hidden.
“Well?” Abdal impatiently said before she could.
Selima gave them a grim smile. “Sheikh Qadir is in the house with the guards along with the village Elder. He… has not been treated well. I overheard Anderson and the interpreter talking. The brothers were apparently separated by an unknown sniper. This third party caused the initial explosion that got our JRM’s attention immediately, and the search for the Sheikh kept the brothers from meeting up along the way. Anderson is expecting Colin Coldhouse and a dozen more men to arrive sometime tomorrow,” Selima said.
“A dozen!” Aimee responded with horror. “We have to get him out of there. How badly is he hurt? Can he move?”
Selima nodded. “I think he can. They want something from him and… I don’t believe they plan on taking him out of the country,” she said, touching Aimee’s arm compassionately.
Aimee gazed back at Selima. She knew exactly what the woman was telling her. Colin Coldhouse and his brother planned on torturing the information they needed out of Qadir, and then they would kill him.
There was no way they could fight off two dozen men. Ten seemed impossible, especially when they were holding the villagers as hostages.
“We have to get the villagers to safety, rescue Qadir and the Elder, and disappear before Colin makes it here,” Aimee said.
“I have an idea,” Abdal piped up.
Aimee and Selima looked at the man in surprise. He shrugged and grinned. Selima waved an impatient hand at him.
“I play a lot of video games,” he replied.
“And…,” Selima said.
“Well, what if the villagers all disappear? I mean, they know this area better than anyone and can hide for months. I grew up in a village just like this. You tell one and they tell another and suddenly everyone disappears to their safe spot.”
“Yes, but that still puts the odds at ten-to-three,” Selima pointed out.
“We’ll need a distraction,” Aimee said.
“Maybe we can help,” an unfamiliar American voice interjected, startling all three of them.
Aimee twisted around and stared at two people standing a few feet from them. The woman was tall and dressed like a Jawahir man. Her face was covered with cloth. Her eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses. Only the smooth, husky sound of her voice distinguished her as a woman. Her companion was slightly taller, lean, and carried a deadly cache of weapons. His face was covered as well, and it was impossible to distinguish his features, but there was something eerily familiar about them both.
Selima trained her gun on the woman.
The woman paused before lifting her hand to her sunglasses. She removed them and casually looked at Selima.
“Who are you?” Abdal demanded.
“You can call me Dallas. This is… Hamlet,” Dallas introduced.
“Greetings,” Hamlet said.
“You’re American,” Selima stated, not lowering her weapon.
Dallas nodded and looked down at the village. “Yeah, I’m trying to clean up an American-made mess. Unless you plan on killing us as a distraction, I’d appreciate it if you’d aim that pistol somewhere else.”
Selima lowered her weapon, but her eyes still showed her suspicions. “Are you CIA?” she inquired.
Dallas squatted down next to them. “Now, I can’t admit to the U.S. government being involved in an international incident. Let’s just say we are on the same side. Some people in the world don’t think Andrius Bronislav should keep his power.”
“How can you help us?” Aimee curiously asked.
Aimee kicked the tattered ball between her feet. It gave her an excuse to keep her head bowed. Out of her peripheral vision, she warily watched Abdal striking up conversations with members of the village. Each person cast a furtive glance at the armed men before they nodded. Slowly but surely, everyone began disappearing from the village.
Selima carried the bucket out of the house and over to the well again. She called out a sharp request for Aimee to get the food she had prepared for the Elder. Aimee picked up her ball and hurried to the house.
On the table was a small basket with stoneground flat bread, goat cheese, and dried fruit. She picked up the basket and exited the house. When she was a few feet from the guarded house, she dropped the ball to the ground.
Keeping her head down, she moved the ball back and forth while Selima talked to the guards in Arabic. They frowned and shook their heads. Selima motioned to the bucket of water, the basket, and the door.
The guards balked.
Aimee was beginning to doubt their plan when the door suddenly opened. Through her eyelashes, Aimee recognized the interpreter from earlier.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
The first guard shrugged. “This bitch has food and water she wants to deliver.”
The interpreter asked Selima in Arabic to explain herself. Selima kept her eyes down and softly said that it was her responsibility to bring food and water to the Elder.
“Who is this?” he asked, indicating Aimee.
Selima reached out and slapped Aimee lightly on the back of the head. “This is my brother. He is still young. He has no manners. It is time he learned responsibility instead of playing with his ball all day.”
Aimee stilled the ball with her foot and slumped her shoulders. The interpreter was silent and Aimee felt like his eyes were drilling through her disguise. He finally grunted and stepped aside.
“Put the water and food on the table and keep your eyes down,” the man instructed.
“You think Anderson’s going to feed them?” the second guard asked with disbelief.
“Fuck no. He’ll probably eat it himself,” the first guard snorted.
“Shut the fuck up and stay alert,” the interpreter ordered.
“Yes, sir,” the second guard muttered.
Aimee kicked the ball through the door and entered ahead of Selima. She took a few steps inside and the door closed behind them. A soft gurgling sound made her whirl back around. Aimee stared in wide-eyed shock as the interpreter slid down the closed door. He had a hand pressed to his slit throat.
Selima stepped away from the man, the knife in her hand dripping with his blood. Aimee shook herself out of her trance, placed the basket on the table, and retrieved the knife hidden under the food.
The house only had two rooms, the main area and another without a door. Through the opening, she could see an elderly man sitting on the floor.
She cautiously approached the room’s entrance. Selima signaled her to stop. Aimee froze in place while Selima scanned the room.
“Help him while I make sure no one comes in,” Selima ordered.
Aimee nodded. She hurried over to the old man and sliced through the ropes on his wrists and ankles. He reached out a shaking hand and touched her arm, then pointed behind her toward the corner.
“The prince,” the old man murmured.
Aimee barely stifled her cry of horror when she saw Qadir sitting on the ground in the corner partially hidden by a stack of crates. He was bound and blinded by a hood.
She rushed over to him, sliding the blade between the plastic straps around his ankles. She slid her hands along his dirty trousers to his tethered wrists. They were raw and bloody from the thick plastic strap around them. His fingers curled.
“Qadir, I’m here. We are going to get you out of here,” she breathed.
“Is he capable of walking?” Selima asked from the doorway, her attention still on the entrance.
Aimee looked up at the other woman and shook her head. “Not yet,” she quietly replied.
She tried to be as careful and gentle as she could while cutting through the strap. It was so tight, she could barely squeeze the tip of the knife between his wrists. His hands fell limply to his sides once they were free and fresh blood oozed from the deep gashes in his skin.
She cut the rope holding the hood on and pulled it off his head. His eyes were closed. His face was badly bruised, his upper lip was split, and there were gashes on his right cheek and left temple. She tenderly caressed his bruised flesh, stroking his face with her thumbs.
“Here, give him water. It will help. Not too much at first,” the elderly man instructed.
“Ashkuruk,” Aimee replied, thanking the man for the cup and the damp cloth he held out.
She placed the cup against Qadir’s cracked lips and murmured soft, encouraging words for him to take a drink. He moaned and tried to turn his head away until some of the cool, soothing liquid touched his parched tongue. He parted his lips.
A loud thud came from the house’s door, causing Aimee to jump and Selima to twist around. Dallas was being true to her word. Shouts and the rat-a-tat-tat of automatic gunfire filled the air. Aimee jumped again when fingers wrapped around her wrist. Her gaze softened when she saw Qadir’s dark eyes staring back at her.
“Am… I… dead?” he croaked out.
She laughed in relief and shook her head. “I don’t think it would hurt so much if you were,” she tenderly replied.
He swallowed with difficulty. Aimee placed the cup back against his lips with one hand and ran the damp cloth over his face with the other in the hope it would help revive him. He reached up and took the cup from her with a shaking hand, put it to his lips, and drained it.
“More,” he demanded.
The elderly man reached for the cup and hurried into the other room where the pail of water was. Aimee gently cleaned the blood and dirt from his face. He drank the second cup of water before setting the empty cup on the ground beside him.
“Help me up,” he ordered.
Aimee wrapped her arm around his waist while the elderly man took his other side. Fear poured through her when Qadir winced at the movement, turned deathly pale, and swayed before stiffening his spine. They kept their arms around him as he took a step forward.
“How many men are there?” he asked.
“There were ten. Selima killed one. Dallas and Hamlet are taking care of the rest,” she said.
“How many are from our military?” he gritted out.
“Two units arriving asap,” Selima replied.
They all heard the fast approaching helicopters. The sound traveled loud and clear through the house. Bullets pierced the door. Selima twisted and sank down against the thick mud walls. Aimee staggered sideways. The move sent Qadir off balance. He would have crashed to the floor if she had not wrapped her arms around him and pulled him back against the wall.
“Don’t touch me!” he snarled.
Aimee stared up at him, startled. He pushed her arms down from around him. An eerie silence filled the house when the last of the reverberations of gunfire faded. She slowly stepped away from him, and he turned his back on her.
Tears pooled in her eyes and overflowed down her cheeks. She lifted her hand and wiped them away, but they kept falling. Outside, she heard Abdal’s loud shout of triumph. Selima rolled the body of the interpreter out of the way and cautiously opened the door.
The bodies of the two guards littered the opening. In the square, sand wildly blew in all directions as members of the royal guard rappelled out of the helicopter hovering above the plaza. The moment their feet touched the ground, the helicopter flew off and was replaced by a second one with more men.
Aimee remained standing in the small room while the village Elder helped Qadir to the door. Selima looked at her, then at Qadir with a concerned expression. Two members of the Royal Guard rushed to help Qadir. Aimee slid down the wall, her stricken eyes following him as he was helped onto a stretcher and then airlifted. Tears blurred her vision, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand.
“Aimee?” Selima said in a soft, compassionate voice.
Aimee shook her head and turned her face away. He hadn’t cared that she was still alive. He hadn’t even said goodbye.
She buried her face against her knees and silently sobbed. She really did lose everything when the FBI took her identity. Now, not even the man she loved more than life itself cared that she was alive.